


The Grand Sophy - Epilogue

by YorkshireTeaDrinker



Category: HEYER Georgette - Works, The Grand Sophy - Georgette Heyer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YorkshireTeaDrinker/pseuds/YorkshireTeaDrinker
Summary: Following on from Heyer's final paragraph, here is what may have happened on Charles and Sophie's damp journey back from Lacey Manor to London.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do love a bit of Georgette Heyer, she is one of my favourite comfort reads; frivolous, pretty undemanding, but full of wit and attention to detail. I have often thought her novels end a bit too abruptly and the Grand Sophy is one that feels particularly curtailed. This is my attempt to continue from where Heyer left off.

**The Grand Sophy - epilogue**

_"Charles this is crazy! Did you come in your curricule? What if it should begin to rain again? I shall be drenched!"_

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_"Then you shall be well served!" retorted her unchivalrous cousin._

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_"Charles!" uttered Sophie, shocked, "You can not love me!"_

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_Mr Rivenhall pulled the door to behind them, and in a very rough fashion jerked her into his arms and kissed her. "I don't: I dislike you excessively," he said savagely._

_Entranced by these lover-like words, Miss Stanton-Lacy returned his embrace with fervour and meekly allowed herself to be led to the stables."_

Their arrival at the stables was delayed by Charles' continued vexation, which appeared to only find relief in repeated crushing embraces and fierce kisses; and the rain, that had so prostrated Lord Bromford, which was starting to fall as Charles strode towards the stables, shouting for his groom. This gentleman was engaged in the task of rubbing down the first of Charles' famous greys, whilst the rheumy pensioner, charged with the running of the Lacey Manor stables, enthusiastically performed the same office for the second, all the while regaling his younger colleague with a catalogue of similarly high bred 'Uns that had been in his care when Sir Horace had last been in residence.

'Hitchin!" barked Charles, "have the curricle made ready immediately, Miss Stanton-Lacy and I are returning to London at once!"

"At once, sir?" faltered the groom, "but the greys have just done 30 miles straight at full pace. You can't be planning to put them to straight off?

"I said at once" retorted Charles icily. "Do as you are bid!"

Seeing nothing for it, Hitchin nodded briefly at his employer and muttered, "be ready for you in five minutes sir, just need to get this pair back in harness and we'll be ready for off." He stopped his current task and made towards the rear of the stable, there to retrieve the recently discarded tack. To do this, he needed to pass Sophie, who was stood, critically surveying the horses.  
"Begging your pardon, miss, I just need to get past", he said, in respectful tones.

"Oh, of course, I beg your pardon, most foolish of me to obstruct your way in this fashion", returned Sophy, with an easy smile. As the groom edged passed, she murmured in an undertone, "These are beautiful horses, Hitchin, and we must not allow Charles' fit of temper to do them any lasting damage."

Hitchin lifted an eyebrow at this and grunted noncommittally. Whilst he had full knowledge of Miss Sophy's dominance within the Ombersley household, he bore no real hope that she could persuade his master to abort a journey he was so clearly set on taking. Mr Rivenhall was in as dangerous a mood as Hitchin could ever remember seeing him in. The drive down to Lacey Manor had been accomplished at a breakneck speed, the driver paying scant heed to the safety of himself, his horses, or other road users, regardless of the feeble protestations that Hitchin had occasionally found himself obliged to utter. Sir Vincent Talgarth, on one of his visits to the henhouse, had paused to exchange desultory gossip with the stables. Consequently, Hitchin knew full well that Mr Rivenhall had met his betrothed in the house. Every encounter with Eugenia Wraxton in recent weeks, had led Charles to drive ferociously thereafter. Hitchin knew that she could only have added extra fuel to his Master's barely simmering temper.

Consequently, Hitchin moved to fulfil Charles' order as swiftly as he could. Charles, after staring fiercely at his groom's retreating back, became aware of the curious gaze of the aged overseer of the stables, and the laconic curiosity of Talgarth's groom, who had wandered into the yard to see what the commotion was. He turned towards Sophy and, meeting her enquiring smile, ground his heel into the ground and flung his arm out to grasp hers.

"Well, let's not stand here indefinitely, providing amusement for the yokels!" He barked. "Come here Sophy, this is no place for a lady to be lingering."

Sophie smiled broadly at this, but allowed herself to be dragged angrily away from the stable yard, back towards the house. After a minute or so, Charles appeared to recollect the danger that lay therein and stopped abruptly. As they were skirting the edge of the kitchen garden at the time, and the rain was now coming down with some force, Charles pulled Sophy into a nearby outbuilding.

"There," he said, harshly, "at least you can't blame me for giving you a soaking yet."

Sophy, who had found, in the last half hour, that being kissed by Charles was far more exhilarating than she had been imagining in recent weeks, smiled up at him and asked, with a, far too studied, air of innocence, "I wouldn't dream of doing so, Charles. How sensible of you to think of taking shelter from the rain like that. We'd better just stay here for a few minutes whilst we wait for your greys to be led out. How shall we pass the time, do you think?"

"Sophy, you devil," murmured Charles, cupping her chin in his hand and kissing her. His lips had touched hers quite softly to begin with but, as Sophy wrapped her arms around his neck and started to wind her fingers through his short locks, his kiss deepened into something more urgent and fiery.

"Good God, Sophie!" He muttered, between kisses, "do you have any idea what you do to me?"

Sophy, who had found Charles' fierce embraces as instructive as they were exhilarating, smiled sweetly up at him and said, innocently, "well Charles, I thought I had some idea, but I see now that I was someway short of the mark." She then leaned towards him, dropping a soft kiss on his cheek, before whispering, "but have you stopped to reflect, dearest Charles, on what you might be doing to me?" She followed this with a nibble on his earlobe; this elicited a visible tremor from Charles, who responded by clasping Sophy even more tightly about her waist and kissing her with an open-mouthed ferocity that quite took her breath away.

It was some minutes before Charles recollected his purpose and pulled himself, reluctantly, away from Sophie, picking up her hat, which had been removed and hurled across the room during his earlier onslaught. He gave it a cursory dusting, before handing it to Sophie with a curt, "here, put that back on. We ought to be leaving."

Sophie smiled, and placed the battered headpiece once more atop her disordered curls, before following Charles, meekly, back to the stables. The curricle was waiting for them in the stable yard, with the two, still sweating, greys in harness. Charles handed Sophie up into the carriage and then leapt into the seat alongside her, taking the reigns from a silent, and disapproving, Hitchen.

The greys, having been pulled from a welcome rub down and bucket of oats, tossed resentfully. Charles, equally agitated, jerked furiously at the ribbons, causing the horses to set off with a start, throwing Sophie back into her seat and making Hitchin, riding on the rear footplate, clutch anxiously at the strap. Charles, grimly aware of everything his passengers weren't saying, jabbed again, heedless of the delicate months of his disgruntled cattle; furious with himself for compounding his error of judgement, in having his prize horses set to again, so soon after a long, bruising drive, by such a cow-handed display of driving.

Sophie, sitting demurely by Charles side, said nothing, very eloquently. But his display of temper sharpened her resolve to carry out a line of activity that had been developing since their first, angry, visit to the stables. They had gone scarcely a mile when she turned to Charles and said sweetly, "My dear Charles, you know how I long to drive your Greys, might now be a good opportunity to try?"

Charles gave a short bark of incredulous laughter at this blatant attempt at disingenuousness. "Don't be ridiculous Sophie, my horses are in no temper to be tooled by a novice."

"A novice, Charles?" murmured Sophie, with dangerous sweetness, "surely not a novice?" Sophie's raised eyebrow added emphasis to her italics.

"Well, you know what I mean, Sophie," muttered Charles, "of course you are not a beginner with the ribbons, but this pair are fractious at the best of times, they will not respond well to unfamiliar hands."

Sophie forbore to point out that the highly strung horses were not responding at all well to the familiar hands on the reigns, she merely directed a pointed stare at the mouths of the snorting, twitching cattle and cleared her throat, softly.

Charles, feeling the force of this silent attack, carried war into the enemy camp, exclaiming, "and anyway Sophie, what on earth makes you think that, after an evening like the one you have just put me through, I would reward you with the opportunity to handle my greys."

"May I remind you," returned Sophie, pointedly, "that my evening's work has resulted in Cecelia returning home engaged to Charlbury, and that you, my dear Charles, are no longer engaged to Eugenia."

Charles stiffened at the mention of his former betrothed's name, jerking the reigns involuntarily and setting off a litany of snorts and huffs from the indignant greys.

"Right that's enough," snapped Sophie, decidedly. "You are far too cross to be handling such delicate horses, give the ribbons to me." With that, she leaned across and took the reigns from Mr Rivenhall's, surprisingly unprotesting, hands.

Behind them, Hitchin stifled an incredulous gasp, as he watched that renowned whip, Mr Charles Rivenhall, cede command of his prize pair, unresistingly, to a passenger. And a female at that. But then, the groom reflected gloomily, the master had been in damned queer stirrups all day, dashing down to Lacey Manor at a moments notice, driving fit to burst for mile after mile, raging and fuming the whole way. And then, not content with wringing a furious pace out of his prize pair for three whole stages, to demand that they repeat the journey, with scare enough time for precious pair to get a sniff of oats, well that was not what Hitchin expected of a man who was noted, not just for his judge of horseflesh, but for his care of his cattle as well. Nothing, thought Hitchin indignantly, could surprise him now.

Despite his morose projections, Hitchen was destined to be further shocked before the night was out. Sophie, having secured the reigns, drew the greys into a brisk trot and addressed herself to her irate lover, who was seething, damply and impotently, alongside her.

"Charles, I refuse to drive almost 30 miles in an open carriage in this weather," she announced, decidedly. "Have you considered what a ridiculous spectacle we would make of ourselves, turning up in Berkley Square, well after dinner, soaking wet? And hungry." She added, as an afterthought.

"Well pardon me for not making alternative dinner plans," snapped Charles, "My only thought was to get as far away from that rabble you have assembled, before I was induced to make an evening party with a sneezing Bromford, my former fiancé, and that bloody poet!"

Sophie smiled a little at this flood of indignant invective. She slowed the horses to a jog trot, as they entered Lacey village and, at the sign for The Green Man, pulled off the high rise and into the inn yard. Hitchin leapt down from his perch and ran to the greys' heads, where he was joined, moments later, by an interested looking ostler.

"Take them and see them comfortably bestowed, Hitchen," commanded Sophie, "they won't be travelling again tonight. You can bring the curricule back to London tomorrow."

Hitchin glanced fleetingly at Mr Rivenhall, who was beginning to expostulate but, as Sophie had given him an order he was very much inclined to follow, he quickly looked away and busied himself with the horses.

"Charles," continued Sophie, inexorably, "stop fussing and hand me down, we will dine here before hiring a more appropriate vehicle to convey us back to London. Excuse me please?" This last to the grinning ostler.

"Can you have a post chaise and four," Sophie glanced briefly into her reticule and then hastily corrected herself, "no, a pair, ready in an hour?"

The ostler grinned again and nodded. Noticing that the irate gentlemen had not yet exited the curricule, he extended a grimy paw to the commanding female above him. Sophie took his hand, gathered her skirts around her and jumped lightly down. She turned to address the, still stupefied, Charles.

"Well Charles, are you eating dinner in the stables or the dinning parlour? Because I don't intend to linger in this damp yard for a moment longer, if you are planning to join me, you had better move."

With that, Sophie turned on her heel and marched into the inn.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles gazed, balefully, at Sophie's receding figure, his wrath and exasperation ebbing slightly as he allowed himself to enjoy the sight of her well fitting pelisse clinging to her high bosom, and the way her skirts excentuated the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. As many debutantes and, more often, matrons in search of extra marital interest, had found, Charles Rivenhall was impervious to the use of feminine tricks to beguile him. But Charles had been uncomfortably aware, for some weeks now, that Sophie's direct footsteps awoke an interest in him that he had not thought any woman capable of firing.

  
A slight cough brought Charles back from his brief reverie as he realised, with increasing vexation, that he was still sat in the curricle, watched by the ostler and his own groom, both of whom were waiting, rather pointedly, for him to leave. He leapt down, pausing only to direct the ostler to prepare a chaise and four, rather than the pair Sophy had, rather parsimoniously, ordered, before walking into the inn.

  
He removed his beaver hat and stood, steaming slightly, as the rain fell off his voluminous driving coat, creating tiny rivulets along the uneven stone flags in the hallway. He glanced through the first of the two doors that opened at the end of the short entrance hall. This led, apparently, to the tap room, as the presence at the bar of a red faced, white bearded, old man, nursing a stone tankard, attested. This ancient raised his head from his private contemplation of his ale and fixed his rheumy stare upon Charles.

  
"If you be wanting the young lady, she be up in the parlour with Tommy," the old man mumbled, laconically. "A very determined young miss, that one, I never seen old Tom pressed into service so swift, like."  
Charles stared, unsure whether to thank the man for his direction or suppress his impertinence. The ancient, observing the affront in Charles' stare, chuckled.

  
"And I dare say you shouldn't be lagging here bandying words with the likes o me. Not when there's a pretty miss be a wanting your company." The old man chuckled again and surveyed his ale once more, having exhausted his stock of conversation. Charles, hesitated a moment, then turned sharply through the second door and up a short staircase onto a half landing. Here, through the open door, her saw Sophy, engaged in issuing detailed instructions to a startled looking landlord. At the sound of Charles' footstep on the wooden floor, Sophy turned and cast a dazzling smile in his direction.

  
"Ahh Charles, there you are, I trust Hitchen is seeing the bays safely bestowed? I was just telling our host, Roberts, here what an excellent pair you have and how very reluctant we would be to over tax them. I have arranged for Hitchen to remain here tonight and we will resume our journey to London in a chaise that the excellent Roberts will provide us with once we have supper. Supper will be ready for us in what? Half an hour?" This last was directed at the bleary looking landlord, who at once snapped to attention and made haste to assure her that his wife would be able to set a dinner before them in half that time, should they require it.

  
Sophy dismissed this offer with a smile, "Oh no, I would not place such unreasonable demands on your kitchen. Half an hour will be swift enough. Thank you so much for your attention." Another bright smile robbed this obvious dismissal of any sting and the landlord bowed himself out of the room importantly, hastening to the kitchen where he proceeded to seriously impair his wife's progress in making a dinner suitable for her unexpected fine guests.

  
"Sophie how dare you issue orders to my groom!" Expostulated Mr Rivenhall, angrily. "And as for stopping here, when we should be hastening back to London?"

  
Sophy smiled as Charles continued to pace and bluster. "Why, Charles, dear?" She interjected, sweetly, "Why should we be hastening back to London?"

  
Charles glared at her, "because... your father will expecting you?" He finished, weakly.

  
"Sir Horace will expect me when I arrive." Sophy replied, briskly. "Both my note and Celia's explanation, once she and Charbury arrive back at Berkeley Square, will assure Aunt Lizzie of my whereabouts and my well being. If we were to dash back to London as you suggest, then all that would happen is that we would be wet and hungry, your greys would be broken down and Sir Horace, will have left for his club hours ago in the happy assumption that I would be staying at Lacey Manor, under Sancia's excellent chaperonage, and he will no doubt see me in the morning."

  
"But I need to see Sir Horace." Charles muttered, with pained urgency.

  
"But why?" Sophy enquires, with genuinely perplexity.

  
"Because I ought, of course, request you father's permission to pay you my addresses!" Charles retorted, "you must see that Sophy."  
"Well," mused Sophy, consideringly, "I can understand that you would want to behave correctly and with the utmost proprietary." She moved a little closer, removing his hat from his unprotesting fingers and laying it on the table. "But have you considered, dear Charles, how your petition might appear? You deliver Sir Horace's daughter to him, late at night, soaked to the skin, and very hungry." Sophie laid a tantalising emphasis on this last point, as she gently unbuttoned Charles' driving cape. "You are, in the eyes of the world, engaged to be married to Eugenia Wraxton and, until this engagement is formally and publicly repudiated, are in no position to be offering for another woman. Moreover," Sophy moved closer to Charles, her face inches from his as she delivered her closing argument, "Sir Horace will notice that his daughter is looking like a woman who has been thoroughly, recently and enjoyably, kissed."

  
"Sophy, you devil," said Charles, with a smile, shrugging off his great coat and throwing it over the nearest chair, "what on earth do you expect me to say in response to that sort of argument?"

  
Sophie's hands rested lightly on Charles chest as she looked up at him, invitingly. "But Charles, I don't expect you to say anything at all." She murmured innocently and lifted her lips to meet his, inevitable, rejoinder.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The creak of the landlord's heavy tread on the staircase recalled the pair to their surroundings. Charles jerked away, thrusting Sophy from him with inelegant force. He steered her towards towards the fireplace where she took a seat, blushing rosily. He then turned to face the landlord, who enquired, with marked obsequiousness, whether he could fetch the lady and gentleman some refreshment.

Charles replied, some what testily that ale would suffice, with a ratafia for the lady. As the landlord retreated upon this errand, Sophy expostulated,"But Charles, really, you know I don't touch ratafia, of all the insipid beverages."

Charles retorted, sharply, that Sophy would benefit from a touch of insipidity at the moment.

Soppy cocked an enquiring eyebrow at this. “You prefer insipid, then Charles? How unexpected. To be sure,” she went on, musingly, “after prolonged exposure to Miss Wraxton’s somewhat forceful opinions, I can see how you might value compliance in a bride, I am sure you would find plenty of options amongst next seasons debutantes, should you care to look.”

“I don't care to look, as well you know, Madam!” Expostulated Charles, “but damn it Sophy, I can't count myself engaged to you, as you rightly point out, and well, damn it…” here Charles descended into inarticulate confusion and looked appealing at Sophie. Sophie continued to regard Charles steadily, a look of detached expectation on her face, as she pointedly waited for him to continue.

“Dash it all, Sophy!” Charles ground out, “I can hardly look at you without wanting to kiss you!”

Having torn this admission from himself, Charles flung himself into the chair opposite her. Sophy remained silent, a satisfied smile suffusing her features, whilst the landlord set a demure glass of the disputed beverage on the table. As that worthy departed, She took a sip, licking her lips, somewhat deliberately. “I fail to see, Charles,” she began, “the problem in that particular situation. To be sure, it may be a little inconvenient, particularly when dinner is about to be served, but I find nothing disagreeable about you wanting to kiss me. Indeed,” she took another sip of ratafia, looking directly at Charles as she licked her lips again, “indeed, I find it most agreeable.”

“Good god, Sophie!” Ground out Charles, in frustration, “what can I do?”

“What you can do, dear Charles, is have a drink. Then you will eat the dinner that our attentive host is shortly to set before you. After which we we proceed to London by post chaise, a journey that should provide you with ample opportunity to indulge in this new found predilection. If you should wish to of course.” added Sophy, as a musing aside. “On arrival at Berkley Square, you will inform your family that your engagement to Miss Wraxton is now terminated, Miss Wraxton is shortly to be betrothed to Lord Bromford and you have shown great restraint and not strangled your infuriating cousin. Once Miss Wraxton and Lord Bromford’s engagement is announced, you may then consider yourself free to press your suit.”

Soppy paused, and twinkled mischievously, before continuing, demurely, “you will find the lady most receptive to your attentions.”

Charles, torn between amusement, impotent rage and frustrated passion, let out a short bark of bitter laughter. But his intention to check how receptive his lady might be to his attentions was, to his combined relief and annoyance, thwarted by the arrival of the landlord, bearing dinner.

The meal proceeded rather quietly. The lady, who had been quite ravenous on arrival, found her appetite unusually suppressed. The gentleman, attacking the beef with a ferocity that betrayed the force of his suppressed emotion, was attending to the business of eating with a single mindedness that he hoped would dismiss from his mind thoughts a gentleman had really no business entertaining.

As the covers were removed and port set before Mr Ravenhall, Sophia, her mind awash with plans and possibilities entirely new to her, looked directly at Charles and asked, with a hint of indecision that was generally entirely foreign to her, “should you wish to be left to your port in solitary, masculine splendour, I could bespeak a chamber to retire to for a while. I perhaps ought to refresh myself before we set off again?”

Charles poured the port and pushed the glass toward Sophy. “I think, Sophy, that it might be safest, if you and I confine ourselves to, erm, public spaces until such time as I am at liberty to press my suit without constraint.”

Sophy blushed a little at this and looked so adorably, surprisingly, conscious, that Charles reached over to grab her hand. He gripped her hard as he continued, “knowing that you are inclined to be responsive to my attentions, makes me all the more conscious that it is my duty to keep those attentions under good regulation. You know if you took a bedchamber I would be in it with you before you had scarce closed the door. And there is every chance that my attentions may not be entirely gentlemanly.”

Sophy, her blush deepening, gave his hand an answering squeeze and exhaled, deeply, “there is also a chance that my receipt of those attentions may not be entirely ladylike.”

Charles smiled at her, there was a tenderness in his gaze that Sophy had not seen directed towards her before now. “Sophy, you are a beautiful, generous and courageous girl and I love you to distraction. If I could summon a parson to this room and make you mine before God and man right now, I would. But as you have, rightly and presciently, observed, there are several points of procedure to be observed before we can be betrothed. And I must be a gentleman because you, my delightful, enchanting, beguiling temptress, deserve that I should be so.”

Sophy coloured even more deeply at this unexpected tenderness. “Charles,” she began, hesitantly, “I…”

“Shush” murmured Charles, rising from his seat and pulling Sophy to her feet and into his arms. He planted a brief, soft kiss on her lips. “I think it is time for us to return to London, where I will woo you with all the form and propriety you deserve.” He kissed her again, deeply, and with just a hint of the passion that lay beneath his affectionate façade. Pulling reluctantly from the embrace he smiled, a little ruefully, and then grinned, “and hopefully with a little of the impropriety you deserve also.”

Sophy laughed and pulled him closer for a kiss that broke only with the warning sound of feet treading towards the door. There was an apologetic tap on the door and Hitchen stepped lightly into the room. “Begging your pardon sir, just wanted you to know that the chaise is ready for you, but there was a bit of confusion as to whether you ordered a team of four or a pair.

Mr Rivenhall looked questioningly at Sophy, who smiled and blushed and raised an inquiring eyebrow back at him. “A pair, I think Hitchen. A team feels a little profligate and we are in no rush.”

Hitchen retreated to prepare the chaise for departure and Charles returned Sophy to his embrace, eager to gauge how receptive she continued to be towards his ongoing attentions. 


End file.
